Bad Intentions
by Devi Lethe
Summary: The courtship of Lydia Martin is built on the kind of trust it usually takes decades to build. Fortunately for Peter Hale, her friends are idiots, and the one thing she wants, he has. Of all the allies he'd expected to help with seducing Lydia Martin, he never expected the truth to be one of them.
1. A Simple Spark Ignites

He's not looking for redemption. Hell, he doesn't even want it. While Peter might not be part of the adrenaline junkie 90's culture he can both appreciate and empathize with the sentiment, "Go big or go home." He isn't stupid enough to ascribe to it completely, of course, but the idea behind it is solid. Half-measures are pointless. So when he decides to court Lydia Martin, he doesn't dilly dally. He gets right to the point.

Well, he gets right to _a _point. In retrospect it might not have been the point he was trying to make at all, but a beginning is a beginning. And to be fair, he's out of practice.

She doesn't panic when she wakes up to him in her bed. Technically he isn't even in it, just sitting atop the duvet leafing through one of her magazines and when she rolls over to stare at him with something like bemused horror on her face he asks, "What are your feelings on argyle?"

Bemused horror transmutes seamlessly into genuine laughter which fades gradually into near hysterical laughter. It tapers off to an open quiet that feels receptive. He waits politely for her to finish.

Lydia manages to look stunning even with tears streaming down her face, but he knew that already.

Voice a little wavery, she answers, "Sweaters and small accessories only. No, you couldn't pull it off."

"Oh well." The magazine goes back to her side table and his hands fall to his stomach, fingers laced together and a pleasant smile rising easily to his lips. "So what's new?"

Let it never be said Lydia Martin is anything less than fearless. She ignores him, turning back her covers and rolling out of bed without hesitation. She _turns her back_ to him. Her shorts sit low on her hips, twitching with the sway in her step and it makes him want to plaster himself against her even as he wants to give her a new set of scars to remind her just how fragile she can be.

It's a comparatively easy trick, then, to hop out her window and beat her to the kitchen, completely worthwhile when her steps falter for a fraction of a second before she brazens her way through the shock. The placidly smiling mask she favors slots into place, all her teenaged defense mechanisms working together to exclude him.

He's considering his various options for getting her attention when he notices she's making enough coffee for two. The flash of victory sits hot and low in his chest. Not so cohesive a whole as she'd like him to think.

"Cream and sugar, please," he announces, enjoying the way she glares at him over her shoulder. She serves his black, smiling sweetly as she adds both to her drink. He can taste the bitterness all the way down. Lets it linger in his mouth long enough to get sour. It feels appropriate.

Lydia sits across from him at the island, sipping her coffee with a bland expression. She's not afraid, at least not actively. There's a vague air of unease and mild suspicion. It wouldn't take much to tip the scales into real fear, but he won't. Not yet. She isn't stupid enough to forget how dangerous he is.

He smirks around the acrid taste on his tongue. "That's what I love about you, Lydia."

The only sign that his choice of words disturbs her is a blink and her stuttering heart beat, but she doesn't falter in her reply.

"My undisguised hatred?" She literally bats her eyes at him, something that should be innocence in her expression but to him it looks positively debauched.

He really can't be blamed if he circles the counter to stand far too close, inhaling the scent of her. Sugar and sweat and the fading smell of her perfume. Her heart is beating fast and hard, not quite racing but definitely not as calm as she tries to project. The smile he gives her is entirely carnivorous. "The way you let me see right through you."

There's nothing playful about her as she glares up at him, and there's the fear he knew was simmering. It riles him up, makes him want to chase, but when she tells him to get out her voice is steady, and he does.

Definitely a beginning. Not a half-bad one, either.

He leaves an argyle clutch in her locker at school. She doesn't burn it, so he's counting it as a success.


	2. An Invitation to Your Personal Disaster

Somehow, and he's really a bit confused on exactly how it happened, but somehow, Lydia has been largely excluded from most of what's gone on in the past year. It's ridiculous, really, and he's half-convinced most of it stems from willful ignorance on her part, but either way, she's remarkably uninformed about the state of her town. That becomes his first order of business. Relationships can only be built on certain kinds of lies, and he intends to start this one off with a properly deceitful foundation.

The look on her face when he picks her up from school is priceless.

She stares, open-mouthed, eyes flicking from him to the car as though it's some kind of mirage. Although to be fair…

He waits, squinting against the afternoon sun. The brightness still hurts his eyes but it's worth it to see her hair in good light. Seems a shame not to take in the lovely picture she paints, long legs bare despite the chill, hair loose and curling around her neck. That skin was so soft it had almost felt like touching nothing but for the heat.

A little too violently, he shoves his hands in his pockets and one of her eyebrows twitches up. Gone is the open-mouthed stare and in its place a disinterested mask as she marches down the steps like a soldier to war.

The thought of her striking fear into the hearts of her enemies is enough to change his ever-present grin into a genuine smile, particularly when she glares up at him so viciously. It almost makes him want to hand her a knife just to see what she'd do with it.

Almost.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but it isn't going to work," she announces, her arms crossed in a way she would probably think twice about if she knew how appetizing it made her breasts look.

"No?"

"No."

Peter leans in and god, but that little flinch is satisfying. She narrows her eyes at him when he stops only inches from her face. Not what she was expecting, maybe. Good. Her heart is a fluttering staccato in her chest and he can smell the strawberry oil of her lipgloss, but all he does is look. Stares for so long something like panic starts to well behind her eyes, but she isn't looking away.

Oh, Lydia. Pride goeth before the fall.

All at once and just a little too fast to be human, he stands straight and walks to the driver's side door. "Okay."

"What?" Her frown is indignant and adorable, as if it's a personal affront to her that he's gone off-script.

Patronizingly slow, he repeats, "Okay. You don't want a ride, that's fine."

"You really expect me to believe all you want is to give me a ride."

He smothers his grin just a touch too late but he can't really bring himself to mind since it causes a lovely flush to creep up her neck at the thought of him laughing at her expense. It's almost too easy, but he isn't exactly playing fair.

"Not everything is a nefarious scheme, Lydia. I know Jackson is gone and you don't own a car. I thought you might prefer not to walk in Louboutin." Her eyes dart from him to the car to potential witnesses as more students pour into the parking lot. He allows a little fondness to seep into his tone when he adds, "It's just a ride."

The moment her resolve breaks is a lick of fire up his spine. "Fine, but only because I like these shoes."

As she slides into the car with perfunctory disdain, Peter spots Stiles just exiting the building and can't resist beaming in his direction.

But Stiles doesn't look offended, or annoyed, or angry. For a brief second, Stiles actually looks terrified.

_Interesting_. Peter's going to have to be more careful to keep an eye on that. If anyone is going to throw a wrench in his plans, it'll be Stiles. Something to consider later.

Inside the car, Lydia's endeavoring not to look impressed. Half-successfully. Peter less than successfully endeavors not to stare at the tempting expanse of leg even more exposed thanks to the low seating. It may have factored into his buying considerations. She's so fond of heels.

"I'd give you directions, but you already know where it is," she says pointedly. As if he should be abashed.

"I wouldn't need directions even if I didn't," he answers smoothly, waving a hand toward the center console. "Please, put on whatever you like."

It takes all of ten seconds for her to take the bait.

"Why wouldn't you need directions?"

"I could track your scent." Into the horrified quiet of the car, he tacks on, "Werewolf and whatnot. You understand."

He can feel her trembling over the purr of the engine and he aches to feel it against his chest, to feel her shake apart under his body. He can see just how easy it would be, to pull the car off into the woods. He could be across the seats and on her in the time it took a single tear to fall. He could swallow all the wounded little sounds she'd make at the back of her throat. Feel those long, white legs around his hips.

The steering wheel creaks under the force of his grip, but his face holds placid. Now isn't the time. Not yet, no matter how tempting.

When she does speak, it's so quiet he almost misses it even with his hearing, just a soft hiss that sounds suspiciously like relief.

"No one ever says it. No one ever said it, and then he was gone." He can feel the weight of her stare against his face, her eyes latched onto him like tenther hooks and just as deeply embedded. Her voice rises a little with every word, bitterness slating off each one. "They all dance around it like I'm going to shatter if they say anything. Like I'm so _delicate_."

If she only knew just how delicate she was. How easily her skin parted under claws. How quickly her blood soaked into the ground, the earth itself taking a piece of her. Sometimes he woke up in the night and he could still taste her on the back of his tongue, sharp and sweet. It always left him wondering what she would taste like on her back, writhing under his hands and mouth.

"You're not stupid, Lydia. If you want things to change, change them." He pulls the car into her driveway, stopping closest to the front door, but it pleases him more than it should when she makes no move to get out. "Start the dialogue yourself."

There's something naked and real in her big, wet eyes. She looks painfully young, but her voice is steady. "Why me?"

It's so brave of her to ask that he decides to give her a piece of the truth. "Because you could take it."

"I haven't made up my mind whether or not I hate you yet."

There's nothing fake in the smile that spreads across his face. "I'd be disappointed if you had. Here. To help you start that conversation." He pulls the flash drive off his keychain and presses it into her palm.

"What is it?" she asks, curiosity at war with the old fear he still inspires in her. But the more time passes, the harder it is for the fear to win out. And her idiot friends couldn't be more helpful if they tried. It really isn't a fair fight.

Fortunately, Peter's never pretended to play fair. "A book. The Argent Bestiary, actually. You want to talk, that's the place to get your source information. Keep it, I have more than one copy."

The silence as she studies the piece of plastic in her hand is oddly pregnant. He isn't quite sure with what, but when her face closes off he can tell the moment of vulnerability has passed. She grabs her bag and gets out of the car far more gracefully than most humans could, calling back haughtily, "I'm wearing Fendi tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Sleep well."

She doesn't even flinch at that one. He isn't sure if he should be insulted or pleased, but really, it doesn't make a difference. Today he's achieved far more than he'd hoped, and he has his nephew's little rag tag pack to thank for it.

He stops on the way back to the warehouse to pick up muffins. They deserve a reward.


	3. Come Closer, Dig Down

She doesn't stop wearing ridiculous shoes. She _does_ stop telling him to pick her up because she's realized she doesn't have to. He's there every day, waiting. It's possible she's beginning to understand what that means. Not the depth of it, of course, but nevertheless. It's progress, and it's opportunity.

Curiosity is such a pleasant road to hell.

At first her questions are begrudging, little moments wrested from her resolve not to ask. "You don't have to work?"

"If I didn't want to, no, I wouldn't have to work."

After a long pause, "The insurance settlement?"

It only takes him a few moments to move past the image of his daughter with her hair singed away, dead eyes staring up at him with something like relief. "Most of that went to my delightful little hell. The coma ward doesn't run on altruism. No, I had several long term investments before the fire that matured while I was incapacitated."

"Were you?" she ventures, her heart ratcheting up and skipping alternately. "Incapacitated?"

It's so unexpected, he finds himself blinking, struck by the sudden realization that no one else has bothered to ask. She seems torn between fear he won't answer and fear that he will. Vaguely, he wonders if _he_ understands what it means that she chose to ask.

There's an unmistakable rasp in his voice when he says, "Not as much as I would have liked."

The rest of the ride is silent, but the next day when she slides into his car, she looks right at him, her eyes sharp and focused as she asks, "How did you bring yourself back from the dead?"

"Technically, you brought me back from the dead."

His nitpicking earns him an eye roll and a hard stare, but there's something indulgent about the gesture. Something familiar.

It thrills him a little to see, riles up something dark and seething. His jaw aches with the urge to change but he forces it down. Sets the urge aside until he can indulge it.

"How far have you gotten with the bestiary?"

"About a third of the way in." When he side eyes her she adds, "I've been busy. Some of us have lives."

He gives her a look that he hopes communicates clearly that she isn't clever. "Cute. Ask me again when you finish."

She isn't even completely in the car the next day before the question rolls off her lips. "How did you come back from the dead?"

"The same way I woke up from an eight year coma."

Seeing her eyes light up with epiphany is breath taking. As bright and quick as lightning; just as much potential to destroy. "That's why you needed Derek."

"Bingo." It's a pleasure in and of itself to know she understands. To be the keeper of secrets, the one who reveals. Deaton is much more comprehensible to Peter in context. "Being the alpha confers more than just physical power. If you have a… well, for lack of a better word, a compatible vessel, a conduit, and a source, you can channel it for all manner of things."

"What kind of things?" Her voice slips into his ear, steady and strong. Silk sliding over steel. Over claws. Do her scars ache in the night, he wonders? Does she ever prod and press at them to remind herself of her own mortality? To remind her of him?

Would she moan if he did it for her? Would she _scream_?

The mask falls into place smoothly, easily, even if his grin is a shade too dark. It's probably safe enough to show her a sliver of the truth, he decides. Lydia knows all too well that some masks are just truths in plain sight.

"What did you have in mind?" and he has to admit, he curious to know what she's come up with.

Naturally, she doesn't answer, but after that, every afternoon is full of questions. "Do you need to be an alpha to act as a source?" "Does it have to be from wolf to wolf?" "What about humans?" "What about me?"

Peter sends a silent 'thanks' to the universe for giving the Argent girl a nervous break down just before Jackson's parents decided enough was enough and left town. Someone up there must still like him, or at least not care enough to see that he's stopped.

It's not like he's plotting genocide, after all. He just wants a little piece of the pie. Compared to the rest of the world, Peter's plans are downright tame.

So he gives her what she wants: answers. Where possible, he even gives her the truth. "No, it doesn't have to be an alpha, but alphas are more powerful." "It is easier to stick to one species." "Mystically speaking, humans are blank slates. You're magically prototypical." "You… You're an exception," and it isn't a lie. It's just not the whole truth.

He could tell her she isn't asking the right question, but really, why would he? She'll figure it out on her own, probably. In the meanwhile, semi-ignorance is bliss.

She never invites him in, but she doesn't protest when he takes the long way, either.

If part of his reason is that he likes being trapped in a small space with her, likes the scent of her worked down into the seats, into his clothes, likes when he can smell her on his skin at night even hours later, well, that's between him and his motives.

He never claimed they were pure.

Every day, the questions get harder. More specific. Two weeks into the arrangement, she knows more about magical theory than most practitioners. He doesn't mind explaining. It's useless to her anyway, at least directly. He isn't sure if she understands what it really means to be immune, yet, but she will.

Sooner rather than later, he suspects, since she's looking in the right place.

"I'm beginning to think the Argents are intentionally dense," she announces, derision and frustration warring in her tone. "Either there were a few generations of complete idiots or someone left some of the information out deliberately."

Quicksilver sharp and just as mercurial, he favors her with a smile. "Noticed that, have you?"

"It's infuriating." She glares out the window, fingers playing absently with her curls. Not for the first time, he wishes their arrangement afforded him the luxury of watching her instead of the road.

"I suspect it's a mixture of the two. Hunters aren't exactly known for their trusting dispositions."

Her laugh is a breathy tease. "Understatement."

"What caught your eye?"

"Jeanette Argent's account of the origin story. I can't decide if she wanted to make sure no one else could find that cave or if she was just honestly stupid enough not to note the location."

"Hmm." Not what he'd been expecting. Not for at least another few weeks. He'd wanted more time with her before they reached this point. Frankly, he isn't sure he's laid a strong enough foundation. He can't be sure of her. Not yet. But if he holds back now, she'll learn later on that he's not the open book she's come to expect.

In the quiet of the car, her gaze falls on him, palpable, like fingers round his throat. "Peter."

It isn't a question. Nothing for it then, and really, she wouldn't be the kind of ally he needs if she were less driven. He can't allow himself to forget, the very qualities that much her valuable make her dangerous. A knife will surely cut a careless hand, even the one that wields it.

Especially the one that wields it.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing."

She doesn't even hesitate, but he can't quite help himself. He has to ask. "Really? Nothing?"

"Nothing," she says. Straight forward. Guileless. He can hear the echo of an old hurt. She doesn't even try to disguise it. She's comfortable with him knowing. She _trusts_ him with it.

Heat pools in his gut, dark and strong. Strong enough to carry through in his voice. "I'll be over in the morning, around ten. Does that work for you?"

The car floods with fear and arousal, the two tangling together into something intoxicating. It's… not helping his self-control. He takes the turn onto her street a little faster than he should, but he needs to get her out of the car. Now, before he really does see what she'd do with his hand on her scars.

She's got a white-knuckled grip on the door handle, her pulse racing just as hard and fast as it does in his dreams. "Yes," she whispers, her chest tight and the sound a little strangled as he brakes hard in the drive way.

"I'll be here at ten, then." And he's sounding a little strangled himself but god, the heat of her skin might as well be pressed against him. For the first time she doesn't step out of the car, she flees, her steps hurried and her shoes apparently forgotten in her haste.

She's at the door when he masters himself enough to roll down the window and call after her, "Dress warm. And wear boots."

He makes it as far as the next side street before he has to pull over, jerking himself hard and fast. His skin is too dry and his cock is too hard and it's almost painful but he doesn't care. He might as well be incapable of giving a fuck with the scent of sex in the air, on his tongue. He mouths at the cuff of his jacket until he can taste her. Until he can summon the ghost of her, torn up and bloody under his hands, his body.

It's the thought of her eyes on his face, though, that pushes him over the edge. He sees them lit up, hungry. He sees them gleam, trust and fear shining at him from their depths...

His orgasm rips through him like she's the one with claws and he can't help but wonder what it will do to him when he has the reality instead of the dream.


	4. We Could Crash Together

"No."

"Lydia—"

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not going in there in these shoes."

"I told you to wear boots."

"You didn't tell me to wear _crappy_ ones."

"Lydia."

"No!"

"Fine." He takes no small amount of satisfaction from the stuttered little squeak she lets out when he picks her up. Partly, it's spite. Partly it's the way her breath hitches in her chest.

Mostly, though, it's the way her nails feel biting into the skin of his neck because that… that's _good_.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses, heat rising off her skin where it's flushed with rage or embarrassment. Both, maybe.

"Contingency plan," he answers, shifting her weight. She isn't particularly heavy. He just likes the feel of her under his hands, the press of her hip against belly. The way her arm sits across his shoulder, soft and warm, like it was shaped to fit there.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not _five_."

"No? I'm fairly certain I know five year olds who can infer from the phrase, 'Dress warm and wear boots,' that they're going to be walking outdoors." Sullen silence is her only response so he goes on. "If you'd prefer to walk, say the word."

"I'd prefer not to be carried." _By you_, she doesn't say, but then, she doesn't have to. She knows he'll hear it anyway.

"Is it your proximity to me that you find distressing or your reaction to it?"

She blushes so hot it feels like a brand through his jacket. His grip on her tightens a little, reflexively and there's a heavy moment where he's keenly aware of how close her lips are to his, how if he just turned his head he could press them together, slot his mouth over hers and drop to his knees to put her against the ground…

If her skin is hot enough to brand how hot would that mouth be, bruised and spit slick on his cock?

It's as much to give himself a moment as it is to give her an out that he doesn't force an answer. It wouldn't serve anything to push her down into the leaves until she's pushing up against him.

Anything other than his lust, actually. If you can't be honest with yourself.

The bitterness is gone when she finally settles on, "You didn't say where we were going."

Peter stifles the urge to be a smart ass. With a little effort, he gentles his tone, although he can't hide the rasp behind it, when he answers, "You wanted to know about the cave."

"It's here?" Her eyes latch onto him with an almost predatory gleam, embarrassment and proximity apparently disregarded in the face of ambition. If he'd been charmed by her flush, he's incensed by her pale, ruthless glow and something inside him lights up with pride.

He won't even have to teach her priorities. She has them straight already.

Well. Save one. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon enough.

When he grins at her, she grins back. "You didn't really think the Argent's settled here to watch a small, well-established pack, did you?"

She shifts of her own volition, sitting a little higher in his grip, the muscles in her back a tense line under his hand. "Can't you go any faster?"

"All right," and the glee in his tone must set off the warning bells for her, because those little hands turn to claws against his back. With the practice half a dozen nieces and nephews afforded him, he drops her legs, slides his arm out from behind her and lets her own grip pull her around to his back. Those legs clamp onto his waist viciously, his hands clasping under her ass behind his back as he adds, "Hold on."

"Peter—!" If he were human, the pressure of her arms clutching at his neck would have choked him out. As it is, by the time they get close he's seeing a little gray in the corners of his vision but it's worth it for the way she's plastered herself against him. For the hot breath against the shell of his ear and the scent of her hair rubbed into his.

So quickly he can't suppress it, the memory of Julie half sobbing against his chest springs up and Peter hears himself murmuring, "I always did like a little pain," against the top of her head.

She'd slotted there effortlessly, perfectly. Like the gods had shaped her to him when she was made. That day she'd crushed his trachea when she pinned him against a tree and for a few agonizing minutes Peter had strongly suspected he was going to die. It was hard to imagine coming back from the gasping, hazy place where every breath was an agony. The pain itself isn't what he remembers, though. It's the way his body shook, every piece of him quivering in an effort to just _breathe._

It had been Laura who did what needed to be done. Little Laura, fanged and furred, who cut open her palm and then clawed out his throat. Laura who saved him. Laura, whom he killed.

"I'm going to make you pay for that," Lydia hisses, wriggling against him ferociously.

"It's almost like you think that's going to make me _want_ to put you down." He drops her anyway, because he's polite, and pretends he isn't half-hard in his jeans.

She looks away primly, tossing her hair. Haughty little thing. Makes him want to muss her up.

"It's in here?"

"That's right."

There's a hint of uncertainty in her eyes as she takes in the small space, the dark. He can see her start to take in the claustrophobic weight of the earth ahead. She knows what it feels like now, being buried. He gave her that.

He surprises himself when slides his hand under her hair against the nape of her neck. Surprises her, too, if the way she startles is any indication, but it's nothing compared to the white hot flash when she doesn't pull away.

He says, "Last chance," because he's a bit of a traditionalist and the devil always offers a final out.

His reward is the piece of her soul that looks back at him when she shakes her head, that pale throat swallowing down what might have been the words, "Take me home." And how beautiful she looks signing away her life.

She shivers a little at the way his fingers trail across her skin, confusion and fear and want warring as he traces the path from her shoulder to her hand, delicate fabric hiding softer skin, until he has her hand palm up between them. Her eyes on his face and her breath caught in that throat when he favors her with a smile.

Even better when she barks a laugh as he presses the flashlight into her grip. She glances up at him from under her lashes as she flicks it on, all deft fingers and mischief. "What do I owe you if I lose this?"

And that... well, he's not ashamed to admit that for a moment there, he loses his train of thought completely, images of skin and lips and tears swimming up from the depths of his dreams.

"Hold on to it," he manages, even as he sincerely hopes she doesn't.


End file.
